


Bass

by Mandaloria593



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Clubbing, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Dancing, Din Djarin Removes the Helmet, Drunk Dancing, Kissing, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29280180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandaloria593/pseuds/Mandaloria593
Summary: Boba sometimes turns the former Hutt's palace into a thriving nightclub, the rancor pit replaced with a state-of-the-art bass system and Rebo Max spinning tracks. Din joins the party.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Boba Fett, Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker
Comments: 12
Kudos: 123





	Bass

**Author's Note:**

> I swear the next chapter of my WIP is almost done. Meanwhile, have whatever this is. The kissing tag applies to both ships.

“You should try it once!” Fennec shouted over the music into his helmet’s earpiece. 

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

Din had no intention of joining the lively throng. But neither was he content to remain where he was, hip leaning so far against Boba’s arched throne that one leg was supporting all his weight. His arms were crossed over his chest as he surveyed the wild scene in front of him. He was _interested,_ but not interested enough to do anything about it. 

The former Hutt’s throne room was full of people dancing the night away. Boba had modified the space so that some nights, like this one, he turned it into a hoppin’ nightclub. Beings from all over the Outer Rim and beyond came flocking to fill it. Gamorrean bouncers kept the crowd from getting too packed or too fighty. But Boba liked it packed, and Din was pretty sure he liked it fighty, too. 

Tonight, bodies were sandwiched together with hardly any room to actually dance, not that any of the patrons seemed to care, as most were stoned or drunk out of their minds. The lights were low, save for neon strobes of purple and green that flashed across skin of every shade, as the music surged on, banger after banger.

_Thump. Thump. Schwoop. Thump._

It was a big night. Max Rebo had invited a guest D.J. from the Core, apparently someone quite famous. Months ago, Boba had converted the rancor pit into a state-of-the-art sound system, and the floor was quaking with the beat, ratcheting up the energy a-thousandfold. 

Din wasn’t a connoisseur of club music, but the bass had his chest pounding behind his beskar. The frequency of the deep thrumming was making his entire armor rattle. It made Din want to take the whole set off. He could, he supposed. No one had any idea what he looked like out of his armor and helmet. He could go back to the room Boba had semi-permanently assigned him, strip off the armor, and slip back into the crowd completely anonymously. He’d be one unremarkable person in a sea of glitter, sweat, and spice.

He glanced down at a sloppy tug from his host. Boba was splayed out sideways across the throne, elbow holding his helmet up on one armrest while his boots dangled off the other side. An electric purple drink was balanced precariously in his hand. Boba nearly spilled the drink as he reached to pull Din closer to slur, “Twenty credits to get you out there on the dance floor.” 

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

“I’m expensive,” Din said. “Make it one-fifty.”

“One-fifty?!” Boba groaned, dropping his glass where it shattered at the top of the throne stairs. A tiny service droid began cleaning up the shards. “What exactly are you gonna do out there for one-fifty?!”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Din replied smugly. 

“Pffft. I can barely see anything anyway,” Boba complained. “I just see a bunch of colorful, moving blurs. I _think_ it’s hot. But I’m not even sure at this point.”

“You picked this lighting set,” Din reminded him.

“I probably did. I want my guests to feel _comfortable,”_ Boba slurred. “I want them to let loose. D’ya ever do that, Din? Do ya?”

“One-seventy-five, and maybe I will.”

Din was exactly one-hundred and seventy-five credits shy of the negotiated price of the ship he’d finally chosen to replace the _Crest._ He’d haggled it down, pointing out its flaws. Peli had helped, and Din figured he could fix most of the issues himself. He wasn’t half-bad with a spanner, as long as the conditions weren’t too cold, like on that ice planet he’d cashed on with the frog lady, or too hot, like the sweltering days here on Tatooine. It was even hotter inside the throne room tonight than it was out in the desert itself. Din was dripping sweat under his armor and flightsuit. 

_Thump. Bwaaaa. Thump. Thump._

“Vibe with us, Din,” Fennec said, holding out her black-gloved hand. Inside her palm was a bright pink pill. It was some kind of club drug. Maybe a spice extract.

Boba snatched it up and lifted his helmet just high enough to slip it between his lips. 

“Boba,” Fennec chastised, but her voice was syrupy in a way that it never was during business hours.

Boba shook his helmet as he took another pink pill from Fennec. She was standing in front of Boba now, blocking him from the view of the dancing horde below. Boba addressed Din, “Sssorry, that was rude. C’mere,” he urged, pulling on Din’s vambrace, his hand dangerously close to the flamethrower activator. 

Din grasped Boba’s hand to move it somewhere safer, amused that Boba was so out of it, and Boba used his new, better grip to yank Din closer. Din was thrown off balance by the unexpected show of strength, and he ended up in Boba’s lap. 

Boba’s other hand came up to the edge of Din’s helmet and tapped twice, before moving to the back of his neck, where his gloved fingers dug into Din’s cape and cowl.

Din sucked in a breath. He could easily duck away, if he wanted to. But he _didn’t_ want to. He was feeling reckless. Overheated and overstimulated. He was here with no particular responsibilities. It was a lark, really. A visit with an old friend. And Fennec was shielding them from most prying eyes. 

_Thump_ . _Thump. Thump. Thump._

Din tilted his helmet up just past his nose.

Boba took the invitation and raised his own helmet again. 

Din felt Boba’s hand on the back of his neck drag him down, and Boba angled his head, bringing their faces together, miraculously not bumping their helmets. 

The soft press of Boba’s lips to Din’s was gentler and more finessed than it had any right to be, given the far-from-sober state of the King of Tatooine. And then Boba’s tongue was tracing the seam of Din’s lips. Din let them part. He tasted the sharp, pungent blend of the alcohol Boba had been drinking. He felt the sliver of the already-dissolving pill transfer from the wet heat of Boba’s mouth to his. Boba chased it with his tongue, wanting more. He was always wanting more. Din welcomed the deepening kiss with a harsh pant. The rush of the blood racing to his head and groin still didn’t overtake the throbbing bassline that the D.J. was pushing. Through the vibrations where their mouths collided, he felt more than heard Boba’s answering moan. 

Din’s helmet slipping down his sweaty forehead brought an end to the kiss, and Boba retreated until his own helmet thunked against the back of the throne. 

Din moved to stand up, but Fennec’s hands on his shoulder pauldrons encouraged him to remain where he was. “Give it a minute,” she advised. “You’ll be glad you’re sitting.”

Boba’s body had curved in a way that left just enough space for Din to perch on the edge of the middle of the throne. So Din stayed there, leaning back against his royal pillow. 

His pillow muttered something Din couldn’t quite make out. 

Fennec moved to the side of the throne to talk to Boba again, and Din was left with an unobstructed view of the dance floor. 

_Thump. Whirrrrr. Thump. Whirrrrr._

The crowd was really feeling what the guest D.J was laying down. They moved in rhythmic waves like ripples of mirages across the Dune Sea. Variegated colors shone and swayed, and Din embraced the fuzziness that began to replace the worries plaguing his head. Everything was fine. He could relax tonight. Boba and Fennec had his back. He could let down his guard a little. He could enjoy himself.

He began to feel something. Something good. He found himself bobbing his head to the melody that wove its way around the throne room like a spell, just as the bodies on the dance floor were weaving together in spindly, twisting forms that beckoned you to lose yourself in it, like a grain of of sand in an atmosphere of stars. 

Din was enjoying himself. But he’d be enjoying himself a lot more though if his skin wasn’t boiling beneath his too-many layers of clothes and beskar. He felt like a desert turtle cooking in its shell under the binary suns. No matter how he shifted, he couldn’t get comfortable. Boba wanted him to get loose. He couldn't get loose like this. 

Something was waving at the furthest edge of his visor’s vision range, trying to get his attention. 

Din tilted his helmet down, and his head swamped with dizziness. “Hm?” 

_Thump. Thump. Bwaaaang. Thump._

The t-visor of the green buy’ce in front of him was smudged. Din reached out to wipe it clean, but his efforts left an even worse, messy streak. Din took off his glove and tried again. He stared critically at the tacky thumbprint he left in the middle of the t-visor. The t-visor was speaking. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Din answered. “Hot though.”

“Yeah,” the t-visor agreed gruffly. “So are you going to…” the voice trailed off, as he gestured towards the dance floor.

Din hummed to the song that was playing, then slowly got to his feet. His head didn’t swim this time, but he was still too hot. “Need some air. I’ll be back.” He began making his way down the throne stairs.

“Okay. Hal! Take care of my friend!”

Din realized he wasn’t alone heading down the torch-lit hallway behind the throne room towards his room when someone caught him by the elbow. “Easy there, Mando,” someone said. 

Din blinked to clear his blurry vision and recognized one of Boba’s guards. He couldn’t remember her name, but she reminded him of Cara. He missed Cara. He should call her and tell her to visit, too. At ease again, he found his footing and continued to his room. 

“You good?” Not-Cara asked from the doorway.

“I’m great,” Din said honestly.

She laughed and closed the door, leaving him in privacy. 

Din’s hands immediately came up to start tearing off pieces of his armor. He was _hot_ and needed it _off._ He felt good, but he knew he’d feel a million times better when he was down to just his undershirt and pants. 

He placed his helmet on the bed, followed shortly by the rest of the armor pieces. He blinked down at the assorted set of gleaming silver beskar. It _shined_ so brightly. It was truly beautiful. And it served him so well. “I love you,” he told his armor. Then he laughed. 

His laughter became choked with held-back tears when he remembered that the last time he’d laugh this loudly was with the kid. His kid. _Where are you now?_ he wondered.

Din desperately tried to cling to the good vibes he was feeling just moments before, but they were slipping out of his grasp. He finished taking off his flightsuit and extra layers and threw the garments down on the floor. He was breathing hard. He grabbed a bottle of some kind of alcohol from the mini-bar, and the amber liquid sloshed enticingly as he chugged it down. As he put the bottle down, he felt a shiver run up and down his arm. He looked down at the now-bare skin, fascinated as the hairs on his arm stood up at attention and the skin raised into goosebumps. He traced his forearm with two fingers, and the goosebumps disappeared. Skin was amazing. 

But then, his beskar was amazing, too.

Din was tempted to flop onto his bed, notwithstanding the pile of discarded armor, but he was still buzzed and getting sadder by the second. He really didn’t want to risk spending the night alone crying. He’d rather be in the crowd on the dance floor after all. Or back in Boba’s lap. 

Din’s too-wired brain helpfully reminded him of his earlier idea of returning to the throne room without his armor. The idea was becoming more and more appealing. He wasn’t following the helmet part of the Creed anymore. Hadn’t been for a while. He just felt more comfortable wearing it most of the time, especially in a den of villainy and iniquity like the former Hutt’s palace. But if there were any criminals amongst the partygoers tonight, they were too busy enjoying the free-flowing booze, spice, and music to start anything. And Boba had it covered if they did. The party atmosphere was just what Din needed right now. There was nothing for him in this room.

Mind made up, Din went to the ‘fresher and splashed water on his face and into his hair. Glancing up at the mirror, he saw the brown locks had stuck up in every direction. His pupils were blown so wide he could barely make out the brown of his irises. He almost forgot to turn off the water, which would have been such a sin on Tatooine, but he remembered at the last second after taking another swig of the amber alcohol and cupping his hands to chase down its bitter taste with a gulpful of water. 

Din paused on his way out the door to stare at his favorite blaster, but decided to leave it. He’d be a pisspoor shot right now anyway. 

Din felt scandalously underdressed as he crept his way back to the throne room in just his brown pants and tight-fighting black undershirt. The closer he got to his destination, the more he could feel the beat. He could even feel the bass through his toes. He looked down at his feet to make sure he was still wearing his boots. He was.

Din skulked along the corner as he entered the party room. But the room was even darker than it had been before, nearly pitch black save for small rings and sticks of lights bouncing around the room like fireflies shaking in a jar.

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

Din made his way into the thick of the swarm. The air was cloying and heavy with a potent mix of colognes and sweat, which mingled the smells of different planets and peoples, all jiving to one beat, one song, one thump after the other of the bass. Din let the haze of it wash over him. Let it wash away his unshed tears. He moved with it, with everyone, anyone. It didn’t matter. Yesterday, tomorrow, yesteryear, yestermorrow...all of it fell away under the music and the movement. 

The crowd was _alive._ Din was alive with them. His good mood was back. Dreamlike, he succumbed to the rhythm and the vibe, riding the high of it. He found himself squished between two beings, one might have been human, and one was definitely green when a strobe of orange light danced across her exposed belly. Hips undulated against his backside, and Din rocked with it, pulling the person in front of him closer and closing his eyes. 

_Thump. Thump. Ba-dooon. Thump._

Was Boba watching? Din wanted his one-seventy-five. But no one would find Din in this crowd. No one had any way to separate him from the other souls that writhed and shook under the techno-harmonics that sang against his sweat-shined skin. He wasn’t Mando. He wasn’t Din. He was no one. He was the music. He was a single note in a cacophony of bodies. 

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Suddenly then, a flash of something familiar. Someone familiar. 

Pale blue eyes. 

Din felt recognition in his very bones, the rattling of his chest stuttering to a halt. No, not a halt. His heart thumped on, and it was _all_ he could feel. He could feel it throb even in his head and his fingers. He raised his hands to his helmet...no, his forehead, damp and lined with tangled curls. 

He tried helplessly to focus on the visage in front of him. A black-hooded priest of death. No, a warrior. _The_ warrior. 

Din swayed toward the shrouded creature as if swooning. 

Strong arms caught him. Held him up. 

But he searched beneath the hood, and yes, there, as the neon lights flared again, he caught the apparition’s face. The Jedi.

“I’m sorry, I appear to have caught you at a bad time,” came a smooth, cultured voice--or at least a voice that had learned the Core cadence.

Din twisted his head side to side, shaking out his confusion as if expecting another ghost to jump out of the shadows. “How did you-- _how do you know me?”_ Maybe the question didn't make sense. But what he meant was: how did you pick me out of the crowd? Yes, the Jedi had seen his face once. But how had he singled him out here and now of all places?

A flash of a white teeth, bright under the blacklight. 

A hand on Din’s cheek, smoothing away what could only be an imaginary speck of glitter. “I didn’t find you by _this,”_ and the emphasis was made with a thumb across a furrowed brow. “I found you by _this.”_ The Jedi’s hand was on his chest, over his heart, which raced and raced. The touch flared outwards, fluttering across his skin and down to his groin, and Din seized up at the shock of his own reaction. This was not how it was supposed to be. This was not...Din didn’t…The Jedi couldn’t… “I think I could find you anywhere in the universe.”

Din couldn’t breathe. Except that he _was_ breathing, fast, short gasps of air that left him speechless. And the Jedi’s words were...not alluring, surely. Not _captivating,_ like Din was someone special and identifiable in an ocean of whirling stars. Not reassuring, like Din could lose himself and yet never be lost.

“Are you mind-tricking me?” Din had to ask. Had to. Because...what _was_ this? He wanted to...well, he _wanted._

Laughter. Audible and musical over the actual music, which was just a booming baseline now, shaking the floor and Din’s entire body.

“You’re completely wasted.”

Din wanted to answer no, but it wasn’t a question. How was he even hearing what the other said over the pounding beat reverberating in his head? 

“Force projection.” The witty reply to his unspoken question was accompanied by another flash of teeth. 

“Don’t do that,” Din protested, reaching out a hand to cover Luke’s mouth. He didn’t know if he meant the sorcery, the laughter, or the tempting smile that he wanted to stop with his own lips. 

Someone bumped into them. It was inevitable, given that they were the only people standing still in the middle of a crowded dance floor. The Jedi was shorter than him, but he did a fair job of holding Din up when he lost his footing and fell into his arms. Again. The Jedi’s arms. Luke’s arms. That was his name. Cara had told him. Boba had told him. Everyone knew him. Everyone but _Din._ He should fix that. The Jedi had his _child._ He should know who he is. “I want to know you,” Din all but shouted. 

A sure grin. Cocky, like Boba’s. 

Then, hands steadying Din by his hips, gently rocking side to side. 

Din gaped down. The Jedi’s—Luke’s—hood had fallen back when Din had slapped his hand over his mouth. Now, Luke was beaming up at him, looking entirely charmed yet cheeky and _what was happening?_

“I don’t think you’re up to the kind of conversation we need to have. It can wait. But they say you can get to know someone pretty well by dancing with them.” 

Din could hear him loud and clear despite the music thumping, thumping, thumping. Jetii sorcery again. And they _were_ dancing. Together. Bodies close.

“It’s kind of like sparring, in a way. You have to anticipate your partner’s movements.”

Din felt himself spun around, until Luke was at his back. They continued to move together, more sinuously now, and Din couldn’t help but arch into it. 

Luke’s voice was whispering in his ear, “You have to know what your partner’s going to do before they do it, and accommodate the shift.”

Din wondered what Luke would do if he started grinding back against him. And then he realized he was already doing that. _Kriff._ Luke wasn’t releasing his hip. But one hand was snaking across his sternum with the lightest touch, ghosting over Din’s thin shirt as it wound its way down to his belly then back over to his other hip.

“Do you like sparring, Din?”

Din wasn’t sure if it was the pill or Luke’s hypnotic movements, but he was feeling boneless. Weightless. He let his head drop back onto Luke’s shoulder. “With you?”

“With me.”

“I like it,” Din whispered. He didn’t know if they were talking about sparring or sex, but if Luke was willing then Din wanted more of it. He wanted to be lost in sensation. With _Luke._

Din twisted around in Luke’s arms until they were face to face. He cupped Luke’s face in his hands and kissed him. 

Luke wasn’t laughing at him now, but his freezing up was just as undesirable. Din laved an apology with his tongue for the blunt delivery until the Jedi melted out of a marble statue into something warm and willing and welcoming. Din poured himself into the Jedi’s mouth, offering everything and yielding completely. He wanted to be overwhelmed. Overwritten. 

Luke kissed him back less confidently than Din expected, given all the schlock about _sparring_ and _bodies_ and _anticipation,_ but the sweetness was good too. Very good. Slower than the urgency Din was feeling, but _Din_ could follow a partner, did follow, and the kissing morphed from a fervent devouring into a tentative back-and-forth chase of tongues between their mouths. Luke was pulling back, and Din whimpered, not wanting to stop. But he did. 

Luke’s eyes were shining, and his lips were wet. Din ached for him. 

“That was...wow. But, you’re _so_ gone. I can’t--”

“You can,” Din assured him, hoping it didn’t come out like begging.

But Luke was stepping back, putting unwanted space between their bodies until only their hands were touching. Din tried not to hold on too tight. 

“I’ll find you in the morning.” The laugh returned, rich and honeyed, and Din wanted to taste it again. “Make that afternoon, I think.”

After one final squeeze, the hands slipped out of Din’s grasp, and the Jedi disappeared into the shadowy sea of bodies still churning all around them. 

Din closed his eyes and looked up at the ceiling, embracing the sting as a strobe light streaked across his vision. He felt sobered by the rejection, but he knew he was far from sober. He was still affected—by the drug, the drink, the music, the _Jedi._ But Luke's presence had chased away his melancholy and replaced it with something else. Anticipation. Because it wasn’t really a rebuff. It was a _not yet._ It was a _tomorrow._ Luke had found him, one in a billion, and they had more to know of one another. Tomorrow or the next day or nexteryear. 

Din brought the back of his hand against mouth, wiping away the taste of Luke on his lips. He put his hands up in the air and danced.

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._


End file.
